The tavern in Brinemire was unusually crowded that night. Word had gotten out—strangers had come in with haunted eyes and soot-streaked cloaks, their carts still damp from the swamps of the south. Farmers and hunters kept stealing glances at the corner where they huddled near the hearth, whispering amongst themselves, barely touching their food.
The barkeep, a broad man named Doren with a cracked lip and one eye gone white, leaned over to a group of regulars nursing their ales. "You lot seen the sky last night?" he muttered. "Southward. Wasn't natural. Crimson—like blood mist over the horizon."
Old Mira, blind but sharper than most, nodded slowly. "Felt it in my bones. Somethin' terrible passed through the wind. Set my hounds screamin' all night long."
The murmurs grew, rising like steam. Then—a slam. A tankard struck the table with a thunderous crack. All heads turned. A man rose from the shadowed corner, one of the Marsh Townfolk. Mud still clung to his boots, and soot blackened the cuffs of his sleeves. His face was gaunt, cheeks sunken, eyes bloodshot. He stood trembling, not from cold… but from the memory.
"It was Marsh Town," he growled, voice thick with grief and barely held fury. "That red in the sky—it was no storm, no firelight from a distant blaze. It was him."
People fell silent. The air turned to ice. "Varkhaz'gor," he spat the name like poison. "The Elder Flame. The Burned Wyvern of the Grey Mountains. He came… and he ended us."
He pointed a shaking finger toward the door, where several creaking carts sat beneath the lantern-lit dusk. "That's why we ran. That's why we're here. We were lucky—damned lucky. We were out hunting, or trading. Some just ran off early for the sake of survival. But the ones who stayed behind—"
His throat caught. He sat down hard, burying his face in calloused hands. Another man, younger, pale, whispered from beside him. "There's nothing left. Not the chapel. Not the well. Not the elder tree. The swamp boiled, boiled like soup in a kettle."
Someone muttered a prayer. Another knocked twice on the table to ward off bad omens. An old traveler at the bar leaned toward the barkeep. "I thought he was a myth," he said quietly.
Doren shook his head. "Fire don't lie."
The rumor spread like infection. By morning, every stable hand, every merchant, every hedge witch and drunkard from Brinemire to Greywillow was whispering of the fall of Marsh Town. Some said the gods were angry. Others swore it was the first sign of the Dragonblight. A few claimed it was prophecy—that more towns would follow.
Far to the north, beyond the steaming grave of Marsh Town and the trembling whispers of Brinemire, the Grey Mountains loomed—titan bones of the world, cold and eternal.
And beneath those jagged crowns, deep where no sun ever touched, Varkhaz'gor returned. The Elder Flame coiled around his stolen wealth, a sea of dwarven hoards—crowns rusted with ancient blood, relics of dead kings, blades that once sang with runes now silenced beneath molten gold. He curled into the hollow chamber with a guttural growl, a tremor that cracked stone and stirred long-dead embers. Smoke hissed from his nostrils. His breath burned red as his great eyes dimmed beneath his armored lids.
Miles beneath that same range, in tunnels carved when the world was young and dwarves still sang in the deep, eight souls ran for their lives. Gorim, Rahotep, Nadra, Arianne, Varnic, Khaltar, Jhon, and Sayf.
Their boots scraped on ancient stone, breath echoing in the tight air of the Undermarch Tunnels—a dwarven escape-route known only to the stonebound and long-lost smiths. The walls were barely wide enough for a grown man's shoulders, scraped and scarred with the tools of centuries. "Keep low," Gorim barked, his dwarven voice ragged with urgency. "No torch—just the glowstones."
Nadra clutched Arianne's arm as the ceiling lowered again, now forcing even the dwarves to duck. Sayf brought up the rear, sword drawn though there was no space to swing it. Behind them, the world burned. Ahead, only dark and stone.
Jhon cursed under his breath, hands trembling. "You're sure this leads somewhere?"
Gorim didn't look back. "It leads to through the Cave of Mithron. A vault of silver-veined stone. That's what the old maps say."
"Silver?" Rahotep muttered, almost in disbelief. "I thought it was abandoned."
"It was, surely is" Khaltar added. "Now it's salvation."
The tunnel sloped downward. Cool air turned colder. The taste of metal and age filled their mouths. The path narrowed again—if they hadn't left when they did, hadn't known of Gorim's lineage and his people's forgotten paths, they would have burned with the rest.
The path ended in silence. And before them… the Cave of Mithron. A vaulted chamber larger than any cathedral, untouched by time, gleaming with a light of its own. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of Mithron—the mythic metal, purer than mithril, born in the heart of stars and stone. It shimmered with ethereal grace, a silvery-blue glow that whispered promise; strength, resilience… and hope. The perfect ore. The only metal that could hold the bolt of Azerite. But no one spoke of that. Not when the dead were watching.
Hundreds—perhaps more. Dwarven skeletons littered the stone floor like fallen statues, some still clutching rusted axes or shattered shields. They hadn't died in battle. They had melted, twisted into grotesque shapes, their armor fused to their bones, helms charred black and frozen in eternal screams.
Gorim froze first. His breath left him. Then he fell to his knees, iron-gauntleted hands pressed to the scorched stone. "No… no, not here…"
Varnic stopped beside him, the younger dwarf's jaw trembling. His voice didn't come. His eyes swept the carnage, wide and hollow, like someone drowning in ghosts.
"They tried," Gorim whispered. "Tried to reach the Cave… tried to live…"
He stepped forward and knelt beside a burnt form, still adorned in a half-melted breastplate with his clan's runes faintly visible—Clan Stonehelm. A thick-braided beard now turned to ash.
"My brother," Gorim rasped, fingers brushing the edge of the helm. "Garthik..."
A pause. His voice cracked. "He was ahead of me… he knew the route better. I thought he escaped. I believed he had."
The Elder Flame's fury had reached down the roots of stone and turned them to ash. Even this sanctuary, even this vault of purity, had been touched by annihilation.
Rahotep, Khaltar, Sayf, and Arianne looked on, stone-faced yet stricken. There was no honor in the slaughter. No glory. Only horror. They had not known the dead—but the grief was enough to choke on. A reminder that their kin could fall just the same.
Jhon stood in stunned silence, arm around Nadra, the youngest among them. She tried to speak—but all that came was a sob. She buried her face in Jhon's chest, shaking, and he held her tighter, shielding her from the worst of it though he knew her tears were not for these dwarves alone. They were for the truth. That nowhere was safe. Not cities, not swamps, not mountains, not even under stone.
Varnic finally whispered, "I was born in exile. My hammer's never rang in halls like these. I don't know these faces, these names… but it's too much." His voice cracked. "Even silence here feels like mourning."
Jhon's voice cut through the silence like steel. "Gather all you can carry," he said. His jaw was tight, but his eyes—burning. "We're not dying here. We'll take this Mithron, every shard we can hold, and we're going back."
He turned to face the others, cloak torn, soot staining his face. "Back to Luthadel. Back to the ship. Back to what's left of the world."
The group nodded. No words. Just action. Pickaxes struck stone. Hands clawed into the glowing veins like they were gold, but this was far rarer. Mithron, light as breath yet stronger than mountain bone, glinted in their packs and caught fire in their eyes. They worked in grim silence, sweat mingling with sorrow, but every chip of metal pulled from the rock was another oath to not let thing like this happen again.
It took two days through forgotten stone roads and steep ascents before they found a vent large enough for a return path to the surface. Varnic and Khaltar took turns hammering away obstructions. Nadra nearly collapsed from exhaustion. But on the third night, beneath a broken sky and a red moon still haunted by smoke...
They stepped once more into the open world. Wind rushed in. Cold and bitter. But it carried the scent of freedom.
They go back below in the valley, to a place nestled like a forgotten pearl, Luthadel. And docked on the shore, battered but waiting, was Jhon's ship. Their sails caught wind three days later.
The ship sail through ocean toward Sol-Mayora right into Warm Oasis. The Oasis shimmered on the horizon like a dream, palm fronds rustling in desert breeze, and at the corner of it all—The Crucible of Aeons, the forge where legends are born.
When the ship moored, Elven guards in sunsteel greeted them in silence, eyes resting on the packs of glowing ore and the soot-stained faces. Then one turned. "I'll summon the Twins."
Within a chamber carved of blackglass and molten crystal, Sylwen the eldest of the Twin Elves, studied the Mithron laid before him. His golden eyes narrowed. "Untouched since the Age of Fire. Pure. You pulled this from the roots of the Grey Mountains?"
"Through ash and death," said Gorim.
"And this—" Sylrin, the younger twin, held a single crystal of Azerite, humming with unstable energy. "You bring fire's fury and starborn steel. Tell me, what do you want us to make?"
Jhon stepped forward. He looked between them. "Weapons that can kill a god. Or something close."